Those Who Lack Strength
by EvilFuzzy9
Summary: Shinpachi's life ended every bit as pitifully as it began. [character death]
1. Those Who Lack Strength

**Those Who Lack Strength**

A _Gintama _angstfic

By

EvilFuzzy9

* * *

_I really am... completely worthless, aren't I...?_

That was the thought in Shinpachi's head as he fell to the ground. The sword slipped back out of his chest with painful ease, slicked and red with his blood. His glasses lay broken, snapped, at his assailant's feet.

"What a pity, Gintoki..." the teen heard a languid voice murmur. It sounded like it was coming from far away, yet he knew that the speaker was standing over him. "...to think that you would really associate yourself with such a weakling..."

Lying there on the ground, unable to move, Shinpachi felt tears in his eyes. He couldn't breathe right. Every weak, rasping inhalation cost him a great effort, and his lungs rattled pitifully in his breast. He wheezed, feeling the sharp pain in his heart, unimaginable and immeasurable.

He heard a laugh from behind him, distant in its sound, and faint.

"That man is as inscrutable as ever... surely he suspected that we would soon be making our move?" came a second voice. "Yet he left one of his precious comrades to wander the streets unprotected, unguarded... Is it foolishness, I wonder? Or was his intention to use this one as bait to lure us out?"

Shinpachi's heart felt like it was in his throat. He felt sick to his stomach, hearing that talk. He coughed weakly, gagging on his own breath, his own dying sobs.

The pain was intense. It was so terrible that all he could do was weep for the agony of it all.

Why? Why did it hurt so much? Was death really such an excruciating thing as this?

His morose, morbid ruminations were interrupted by another laugh, this time from the first speaker.

"Bait? Isaburo, even the smallest of fish would not nibble at a morsel so insignificant and meager. This boy... ha, ha, ha... no, I imagine that Gintoki simply believed nobody would bother with a small fry like this... what a fool he is."

Shinpachi grit his teeth, unable to even whimper. He could taste blood on the back of his tongue. His limbs felt leaden, too heavy to move. He could feel the strength ebbing from his body, blood seeping from the wound in his chest with every agonizing beat of his heart.

The pain was too much to bear. Even apart from the physical injury, Shinpachi felt like this pain alone could slay him.

"Mmm, yes..." said the head of the Mimawarigumi. "I suppose he underestimated your cruelty, no? Even a highborn elite like myself could not have crushed this worm so callously, Takasugi-dono."

The commander of the Kiheitai let out a mirthless laugh.

"I exist only to destroy," he said. "I will crush this entire rotten country... and everyone in it. This boy... I suppose he simply had the honor of being the first to die. He should feel happy, that he will not live to see the destruction everything he has ever cherished."

Shinpachi felt his fingers grow numb, and his toes. He could hear his heartbeat, so loud in his ears, yet so weak and intermittent now. It was a torment of the worst kind, to feel his heart continue to pump, so stubbornly, so self-destructively.

"Oho? So it is a mercy kill. I did not think you still capable of such sentiment, Takasugi-dono," said Isaburo Sasaki. "What, does this boy remind you...?"

Takasugi laughed.

"No, the boy himself does not matter..." he said. "He was simply the weakest link... in the chain holding back that beast. With his death... the _Shiroyasha_ will be unleashed. Gintoki and I will finally have our fateful battle..."

Shinpachi ached.

He know that he was not going to make it. He was going to die. Even if an entire army descended on his location at that very second to drive these two away, there was no power on earth that could save him now.

He was too far gone, he knew. He was going to die. He would not be there for his friends, in the end. No matter who triumphed, ultimately, for him at least it would make no difference. Where he was going, it would not matter. There would be no homecoming for him, no final fight against impossible odds, no last stand alongside his beloved friends and comrades.

Faintly, he felt sorry for failing them like this, for being too weak to survive with them until the end. He had tried, he had tried so hard to become strong...

...but in the end, he supposed that even his death was simply the punchline to some cruel cosmic joke. That was everything he was, all he was. Punchlines and glasses.

And both were gone from him. What remained now... was just water and trash.

Maybe it was selfish, but Shinpachi could only pray that it would soon be over. He prayed for death.

Isaburo Sasaki looked down at the body of Shinpachi Shimura. He saw one of the fingers twitch the faintest bit.

"Ah, you are still alive?" he said, sounding blandly surprised. "My apologies. I suppose my comrade is not as accurate with his blade as he claims."

Takasugi sneered.

"Or perhaps I simply wanted to see the look on this boy's face," he rejoined, "as he loses every last bit of hope... ha, ha, ha... Have you ever seen it, Isaburo...? The face of a man who has lost everything...? It is so delightfully shameful..."

"How cold," said Isaburo dryly. "You truly are a demon, Takasugi-dono..."

The head of the Mimawarigumi drew his pistol, and aimed the muzzle straight between Shinpachi's eyes. He pulled the trigger.

Shinpachi Shimura's life ended as pitifully as it began.

* * *

A/N: Hehe, Shinpachi is my favorite character in _Gintama_.

So naturally I write this fic where dies an utterly senseless death, powerless and alone, broken down to less than nothing. Because that is how I show my love, apparently. Well, that, and shipping him with virtually every female who is within even spitting distance of his age.

Ahh, I've actually been in the serious mood for Patsuan angst, recently... Hehe, I've felt like this for a lot of characters, but Shinpachi is definitely among the ones with the best reasons to feel like everybody hates him and thinks he's worthless. And this is just one of three distinct angsty death-fic ideas that I've considered for Shinpachi, the other two being some kind of suicide fic, and a more feel good one where Shinpachi dies a death that is basically the exact opposite of the one in here.

Hell, for the latter, I even had/have an idea of what I want/wanted the last line/s to be:

_And for just a moment, out of the corner of her eye, Kagura could have sworn that she saw Shinpachi, dressed all in white, charging into the fray alongside them._

_He was smiling._

Because I guess if people insist on disliking Shinpachi, then part of me just wants to make them cry tears of blood.

Ah.

I guess I really AM a sadist.

**Updated: **3-2-14

**TTFN and R&R!**

– — ❤


	2. Those Who Have It

**Those Who Have It**

A _Gintama _angstfic

By

EvilFuzzy9

* * *

_"Go on ahead without me!" _

Those were the words Shinpachi Shimura bellowed to his friends and comrades as they passed through the gates of the Tendo's palace. Behind them, no small number of enemies were pouring into the courtyard after the intruders, streaming together into a thronging, roaring mass of flashing steel and gunmetal gray. Before them lay the defenses of the Way of Heaven Sect, a living wall of Dakini and Inui and Genbu tribe warriors decked out in the ornamented armor and ceremonial garb of the Tendo's topmost elite.

The pursuers were nearly on top of them, and if they were not stopped now the Yorozuya and their allies would be caught as between a hammer and anvil. In all likelihood, they would need to focus their full strength before them just to punch through this line of defense, and if they were forced to split their attention between the fore and the rear, with their numbers, they would have almost no chance of survival.

Gintoki Sakata and Katsura Kotaro grit their teeth, glancing over their shoulders at the Shimura boy. They met his eyes, and saw the resolve in them. The teen's jaw was grimly set, his eyes hard and steely.

Gin shook his head and laughed, wryly.

"Do you really think you can hold those bastards off all by yourself, Patsuan...?" he muttered to himself, the boy having already turned around and run back to the gate.

Elizabeth, at Katsura's side, held up a signboard.

_He can_, it said. The sign flipped over to reveal the other side. _I believe in him._

Katsura let out a hearty laugh.

"Elizabeth is right!" he declared. "Shinpachi-dono has the spirit of a true samurai... he will hold them off as long as he needs to."

Kagura, beside Gin, looked worried.

"But... he'll make it back, right...?" she said quietly. "He won't... he won't _die_... yes?"

Katsura was silent. Elizabeth did not hold up a sign.

"Ahahaha!" laughed Sakamoto, his blaster in hand as he ran between Gintoki and Katsura. "That Kenpachi-kun is much too strong to be defeated by the likes of them! Haha! Right, Zura, Kintoki?"

Mutsu, behind Sakamoto, slapped him on the back of the head.

"It's Shinpachi, not Kenpachi," she said peevishly. "You're thinking of the wrong series, you idiotic captain."

Gin was silent. Kagura, looking up at his face, could see the faint glimmer of moisture on the man's cheek.

"Gin-chan..." she murmured softly, running into the stronghold of the Tendoshu alongside the Shiroyasha and her friends. "...why are you crying? Shinpachi... he'll make it, yes?"

The man, who had tears streaming down his face as he led the charge, smiled for the girl's sake.

"Of course he will..." he said, still looking straight ahead. "I'm just getting all my tears out now... for when we catch up with Patsuan, after this is all over."

Kagura's expression softened, and she smiled.

"Yeah..." she said. "We wouldn't want to look uncool in front of that lame four-eyes, right...?" Her words were confident, but her voice trembled a little.

She suspected more than Gin and the others were ready to let on. None of them were willing to say it out loud, but they all knew the truth.

This... was probably the last time they would ever see Shinpachi alive.

* * *

To fight without fear for your own life. To strike down the enemies of your lord without question or hesitation. To give your own life readily in defense of your master's person and estate. Those were the duties of the samurai of old, the proud vassals and protectors of the nobility.

In the old days, before the coming of the amanto, samurai were expected to conduct themselves in strict adherence to the principles of bushido. To live their life with no care for their own happiness or well-being, save where to neglect it should hinder or inconvenience their master. They were literally _those who served_, expected to live and die for the sake of their lord.

Shinpachi's blade flashed through the air, hewing through skin and muscle with frightful ease. Blood flew violently from the wounds inflicted by the keen, slicing edge of his katana. The hilt he held in both hands, swinging the sword with the full strength of his arms.

Many cultures, past and present, had comparable classes, warrior castes of similar purpose or prestige. From the Ottoman mamlukes to the viking huscarls, throughout human history there had been many people like the samurai of Yamato. Those who lived by the sword, or axe, or spear, or bow, or whatever, who offered their lives in service of a greater cause, who abandoned their own individuality to become tools of their lords, weapons to strike at the heart of their masters' enemies.

The tip of a spear, thrust wildly by its amphibian-looking wielder, narrowly missed Shinpachi's head, laying a cut upon his cheek. Shinpachi, however, did _not_ miss. A frog-like head was cleanly separated from its owner's shoulders, a decapitated body slumping limply to the ground.

But Shinpachi did not tarry over this kill. He kept moving, working his way to and fro across the gate's threshold, engaging a vast tide of foes at that bottleneck, where at best five medium-sized amanto could stand comfortably abreast.

A samurai, a knight, whatever you wanted to call it... they were among the elite of their cultures, wherever you found them. They were warriors representing the pinnacle of human ability, and embodying the ideals of their respective peoples.

They all had their own kinds of "honor".

And a samurai's was to live as one dead. To fight relentlessly, with swift and devastating offense, cutting down the enemy before they themselves could be cut down. A shield, in the mind of a samurai, was the accoutrement of a coward, and a weakling.

Shinpachi fought with a zealous fervor, uncaring of his own body. Though the enemy came forth endlessly, he cut them down without pause, staving off the hordes with nothing but a steely blade and an iron will.

_It's strange..._ he couldn't help but think numbly to himself, lost in the cold thrill of battle as he slashed his katana smoothly this way and that. _Was I really this strong...?_

The bodies of the amanto were heaped up high at Shinpachi's feet, his tireless efforts to hold the gate as long as he could managing to carve no small dint even into the seemingly innumerable forces of the Tendo. His clothes were in tatters, wounds covering his body here and there, fabric stained deep scarlet with his blood. He felt like he had been fighting forever.

His muscles ached deeply, his limbs pushed past far past his limits. His whole body was in pain, sweat stinging at the countless cuts and gashes and lacerations which littered once-smooth skin. He could feel broken ribs, his body battered and beaten.

Even if Shinpachi were swift and skillful enough to cut down nine enemies without being hit, the tenth would nonetheless be able to get a lucky blow in before dying. No matter how hard the boy pushed himself, no matter how brightly his spirit burned, there was still a limit to what one human could do. Though he may cut down countless score of enemies in his frenzied defense of the gate, the survivors would simply climb up over the corpses of their comrades, falling upon him with the unthinking zeal of the Tendo's fanatics.

And in this manner the amanto slowly pushed him back, inch by inch, charging him without fear or hesitation. Their sheer numbers were wearing away at him like waves crashing upon the shore.

Yet still, Shinpachi was able to keep standing, and continue fighting. The others had long since gone ahead, having pierced through the defenses and charged into the heart of the Heaven Sect's stronghold. He was all alone here, fighting against an unending tide, yet he did not once relent.

If his body no longer had the strength to move his limbs, then he pushed them on with sheer force of will. If his legs threatened to buckle under the weight of the enemy forces, then he kept them straight with the thought of his comrades. If his body listed, or his spine bent low in weariness, then he made his soul stand up tall.

His glasses were long since broken. Shinpachi could scarcely see the enemy before him. But still he kept on fighting, continued to swing his sword and stand his ground.

He did not expect to meet back up with his friends. Not in this life.

The moment he decided to hold the rear, Shinpachi had known what his fate would be. But he did not fear death. Not if it was for the sake of his friends and loved ones. So he fought, and he fought. He abandoned all care for his own well being, cast aside any pretenses of _living_.

He became a true samurai. He abandoned all fear of death, all reluctance to draw blood, all hesitance to put himself in harm's way.

He may not have been outstanding in life, may have been only average in every other way, but right there on that battlefield, right then during that fight for the fate of the earth, Shinpachi Shimura finally understood and embraced the ideals of his father, and the way of the _samurai_.

He fought proudly, wading into the midst of the enemy without fear. He cut down foe after foe, swinging his sword even until it was notched and blunted, even until it sundered completely.

And when that happened, he simply took up the weapon of a fallen enemy, and continued to fight.

Who could say, how long Shinpachi made his stand for? Perhaps it was only minutes, time seeming to extend in the fevered pitch of battle. Perhaps it was hours, a warrior's pride pushing this young man's body to endure far beyond the point where another would have given up the ghost. But however long it lasted, it can be said with certainty that his friends made every second of the time he bought them count.

They would not let his sacrifice go to waste. They drove forth like a wedge, a living bullet that punched straight through the Tendo's defenses. Every last one of them played a part in that battle, whether they were Jouishishi, Shinsengumi, Oniwabanshu, or anything in between.

With the memory of a dear friend and comrade burning in their hearts, this ragtag band of desperate fighters made one final, headlong dash into the heart of the Tendo Sect's center of power. From the Demon Vice-Chief of the Shinsengumi to the Shinigami Courtesan of Yoshiwara, and everyone in between, they fought like demons for the sake of all those things they each had sworn to protect.

The remaining Yorozuya were no exception. Gintoki Sakata fought with a renewed fervor, the legendary Shiroyasha reborn. The daughter of Umibouzu loosed the terror of the Yato upon her enemies, demonstrating _why_ that tribe, above all others, was called the _strongest_.

And for just a moment, out of the corner of their eyes, Kagura and Gintoki could have sworn that they saw Shinpachi, dressed all in white, charging into the fray alongside them.

He was smiling.

* * *

A/N: As a counter-point to the first chapter (with thanks, as always, to Sokka's Fan-Lawyer for being such a big supporter of my "crusade" to create more fic for Shinpachi). This is definitely a much more classically romantic take on how Shinpachi could die, and also more heavily informed by my own preferences and interpretations of the series' themes.

**Updated: **3-3-14

**TTFN and R&R!**

– — ❤


End file.
